Over the next few days, Yeh and Lin spent nearly every day finding apartments. Their schedules were packed from morning till night, shuttling between different residential complexes, their time filled with the rise and fall of elevators, the sound of opening doors, and the agents' repeated, enthusiastic introductions.
None of the places they viewed on the second day felt quite right. Some were so cramped that it felt hard even to breathe; others were blocked by surrounding buildings, leaving them dim and shadowy even at noon. A few were perfectly decent, but situated too far from Lin's new office, turning what should have been a short commute into something unnecessarily long and tiring.
Yeh drove Lin across the city day after day, navigating busy main roads and quiet side streets, retracing routes she knew like the back of her hand. At times, a strange sense of unreality would wash over her—this frequency, this intensity of shared time, felt like something far beyond the bounds of ordinary friendship.
Yeh was never the type to meet her friends every single day. No matter how close they were, she rarely let anyone step into her life so completely, from morning until night, day after day. She remembered when she herself had been house-hunting; friends might accompany her once or twice at most, but mostly, she had done it all alone—making decisions, checking details, signing contracts, all by herself.
Yet here she was, doing exactly that for Lin, and doing it unquestioningly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Before leaving each morning, she would look up the best routes in advance, casually checking for nearby cafés or convenience stores, as if carving out small pockets of comfort within their busy schedule. Sometimes they would arrive early and wait downstairs for the agent, chatting about ordinary things that never felt boring or forced. It was a subtle, wonderful feeling—like there was suddenly a constant presence in her life, someone who occupied her time effortlessly, without requiring to be planned or arranged.
Occasionally, while viewing a place, Yeh would zone out for a few seconds. Stepping through a doorway into an empty living room, her mind would instinctively start arranging furniture: the sofa by the window, bookshelves against the wall, a coffee machine fitting perfectly into the corner of the kitchen. These images quickly formed complete scenes of daily life, and for just a second or two, she would picture herself there, too, alongside Lin.
The thought would come unbidden, and vanish just quickly. Almost instinctively, she would push it away, reminding herself firmly—This isn't my life. These spaces belong to Lin and Jing. I'm just standing by, watching.
Yet even so, she harbored a small, quiet wish she hardly dared admit to herself: she hoped the place Lin eventually chose would be close to her own, so they might naturally cross paths more often.
It was on the afternoon of the third day that they found the perfect one. When the front door opened, the hallway was bright and quiet. The agent unlocked the door, explaining that the owner was a designer who had lived there herself before moving to France for work; the apartment had been impeccably maintained, and she preferred renting to female tenants. The moment the door swung open, everything seemed to fall silent around them.
Lin paused just inside the threshold. The apartment was styled in clean, minimalist Scandinavian fashion—light wooden floors, plain white walls, and furniture that was sparse but perfectly placed. Nothing was unnecessary, yet the space never felt cold or empty. The highlight of the living room was a wall made entirely of glass, flooding the interior with soft, natural light and lending the whole place a sense of calm and openness.
Lin walked instinctively toward the window, standing there for a while, looking out. Down below lay a small park, its trees swaying gently in the breeze. Further away, the city's main road stretched out, the traffic flowing like a slow, glowing ribbon—visible proof of the city's steady, living rhythm.
"It's lovely," she said softly.
Yeh stepped up beside her, following her gaze for a moment before speaking. "And it's not far from your office."
Lin nodded, turning to look at her. "What do you think?"
Yeh usually stayed well out of other people's decisions, preferring to leave the choice entirely to them and keeping her own opinions carefully neutral. But this time, she took the question seriously. She glanced around the living room, then back toward the light streaming through the window, before answering: "I can easily imagine you being very happy here."
It wasn't praise, exactly—just a simple, honest observation.
Lin smiled, open and unguarded. The truth was, she had liked the place from the moment she walked in.
She took out her phone and said, "Wait a second—I'm going to video call Jing and show her."
She slowly panned the camera across the living room, the view outside, then the kitchen and bedroom, her voice softening involuntarily. "Look at these windows."
Jing's voice came through the speaker, warm and smiling. "It looks wonderful."
Lin walked around once more, and after a pause, Jing added, "I think it's perfect. Besides... if you like it, then so do I."
The apartment was so quiet that the words reached Yeh clearly, even though she wasn't trying to listen. She had noticed over the past few days that after every viewing, Lin would call Jing, sharing her impressions, discussing details, seeking her thoughts. It happened so naturally, as if it were simply understood that critical decisions were meant to be made together.
Yeh realized then that she had never had anyone like Jing in her life—someone she spoke to every day, someone who was continuously involved in her world, someone whose opinion mattered so deeply. Even her closest friends never reached that level of constant, shared existence.
From what she had seen and heard, Jing seemed quiet and gentle, someone who rarely asserted her own opinions but stood firmly by Lin's side. The understanding between them felt deep and effortless, the kind of bond built over years of shared history.
When the video call ended, Lin put her phone away. "Jing thinks it's great too."
Yeh nodded, saying nothing. But inside, her heart gave a small, sinking lurch—light and fleeting, not quite jealousy, but something much clearer and more sobering: the person who belonged in Lin's life, the one who had always been there, was never going to be her. She was only a newcomer, having just recently stepped closer.
Lin signed the contract the same day, finalizing everything quickly and decisively. By the time they walked out of the building, the sun was beginning to set, stretching shadows long across the streets, and the heat of the day had finally started to fade.
Lin looked visibly lighter, as if a heavy weight had finally been lifted.
"Finally... I have a home here," she said.
Yeh nodded, her voice soft. "Welcome to the city."
Lin glanced at her, eyes crinkling with amusement. "I'll probably be bothering you a lot from now on, you know."
"You're welcome anytime," Yeh replied, smiling back.
She said it casually, but the words carried far more sincerity than she herself realized. Her mind was already drifting toward the future—imagining dinners shared together, movie nights, or simply driving aimlessly around the city. These visions were hazy and indistinct, yet slowly, surely, they were taking shape in her heart.
But Yeh knew one thing for certain: the moment you start hoping for more, the line between friendship and something else has already been quietly crossed.